


Pure Imagination

by breath_e



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amnesia, Character Death, FUCK, Hospitalization, M/M, i totally just bullshitted this in approximately fourty five minutes, in any case its not a sudden character death if you were wondering, its kinda stated in the first few sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breath_e/pseuds/breath_e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smile, he says. Lives are meant to be spent, now I am in debt, and I am tired of borrowing from the people I love.</p><p>(The day John died was, in some twisted works of fate, the first time he told you that he loved you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> heyo, i rewrote this because it sucked some MAJOR ASS and i was so embarrassed to have it on here to check this wicked biznasty shit OUT, yo.

He had been waiting to go for months, hell, years. Ever since the doctor handed him the ticket, you watched the lucid, tranquil spark of desperation glow in John's eyes.

 

The day of John's funeral, you and your friends tried to make it as lighthearted as possible, after all, he always said lives are to be celebrated, like birthday parties, except better. Because everybody dresses up for the theme and nobody buys over-expensive gifts and everybody can come together without being forced with respect and a life can be celebrated as it is. A life is a petty waste if not doused with sugar at the cutting board, he always sang, and you wonder if he knows how bitter those words taste.

 

A party was held and everybody rejoiced for the life lost and lived- so young, so short, but everlasting, but beautiful. You danced with phantoms as a cold laughter spit from your cracked lips. He didn't want any flowers at his funeral because they would soon wilt, so instead, they stacked colorful candles all about the grave and watched the wax melt over his name. It wasn't written in the plans and too many people showed up, some people he had only known for a second but he left his astounding impression on- the one filed with a hopeful, jovial tone and kindness that surpassed death. John would have liked it this way. John would have liked it this way. Lives cannot be planned at the end. Lives cannot be planned at the end...

 

You watched him write up his own funeral plans.

 

The weight of death is light upon a broken faith.

 

"You shouldn't have to do that." The room was stale and clean, fragments of a remaining life littered about; movies, photos, notebooks, sketch books, overdue library books, pens, sheets, everything but the kitchen sink, but it never felt an inch like John's home to you.

 

"That sucks," He shrugged and scribbled down more of his will, "I'm _not_ going to let my father decorate my funeral. Everything would be super lame and honestly? How the heck wants to come to a lameass funeral when there could be like, I don't know, Cirque du Soleil performing the circle of life," A brief glint of thought crossed his face, "I'm added that to the-"

 

"No. You can't do this," You cringed inwardly, his words echoing still. Part of your mind branched as you talked, reminding yourself that you should be talking about his favorite movies instead of stopping his speech, "Isn't that just a tinsy bit fucked up?" He stroked his chin and let out a nice huff.

 

"It's my party I can do what I want to," You snatched his script away from him as he continued with a beaming grin, "Do what I want to, do what I want to," Brushing down his plastic hospital gown, he snorted and nudged you with his bony elbows, "Dance with me." 

 

"No," John merely grunted as he maneuvered himself into a sit beside you, huffing. The thought crinkled your stomach like the thin, colorful paper inside of birthday gift bags, the remembrance that he was acutely unaware of what he was doing to you. Deliberately trying to stay positive- god- to make you stay positive. Your insides wadded into a paper ball as he continued talking.

 

"Because I haven't danced in like, centuries, and I won't be there so who will you dance with at the after party?" He spat a raspberry, "You'll get stuck with Rose, granny dancer of the year. Remember when she attempted to dance to 'You're The Voice' by John Farnham at her mom's wedding? I swear I could hear everybody in the crowd simultaneously vomit in their mouths a little," Yeah, you remember, that was four years ago, when you were still in high school and John was writing up his college applications. He wanted to work on stages, where the whole world's eyes would pass along joy with each skit. The chuckle that rose from your throat was hollow. You gulped down the sharp inhale of breath, "Thank me."

 

"There's going to be an after party? I wasn't aware it was such a momentous occasion," John tried to push himself up, but the pain flashing across his face urged you to help him.

 

"Afterlife, after party. Same thing," With a peak in his voice, he tugged you up with him, smiling with victory, "Haven't I told you? Funerals are meant to be happy, especially m-my funeral," You watched him visibly scowl behind his glass mask. What he did to you. This is what he did to you. _He was acutely unaware of what he was doing to you. Deliberately trying to stay positive- god- to make you stay positive._ Maybe John was okay with death, but did he want to die? Who knows. He wont live long enough for you to find out, "I want people to visit often, but they won't if they think me passing is a bad thing."  You scoffed, feeling his hands twine into yours.

 

"I have been fighting for how long exactly?" With a voice nearing volatile, he edged you two farther from the bed, bones creaking. He shouldn't be doing this, "You won't be missing much, just hospital bills."

 

"Say that one more time and I'll shove your bedpan down your throat."

 

"No! Dude, I mean..." A sedated smirk passed onto his face, "The only thing that will be lost is the bills for keeping me here for no reason at all. I'm going to die, they've told me a while ago that they can't fix that. Why the hell am I here anyway?"  Words tried to claw up your throat but none of them pulled themselves to your teeth, "It's dumb and painful and did I mention _really really dumb_. Ugh."

 

He clicked on the rusty radio on his bedside, the hum of music following, "This is all they ever play here," John exasperated. Lowering his voice down to a whisper, he whispered the sweet lyrics, "Want to change the world? There's nothing to- Oh shut up! It's a good song, not like you would know any good songs, considering you're the embodiment of UNCULTURED in every sense of the word,"  You shake your head, "You're such a Debby Downer!" You thought it sounded dreadful although the lively beat and it did, the combination of John's weary, tired voice and the static of the worn radio.

 

He noticed, he always did, so he stepped backward, shaking off his wrists and flicking the radio louder, "There is no..." He grabbed onto your palms, acting a puppeteer to force a dance onto yours, "Life! I know! To compare with pure imagination!" Ironic, your thoughts tingled. He laced his fingers into yours, "Living there, you'll be free!" He sang loud and monotone, almost yelling despite the symphonic ring, "Come on, dude!" He shouldn't be doing this.

 

"Don't your feet still hurt?"

 

"Everyday, but it isn't helping to be lying down all the time," He rolled his eyes and focused on footsteps instead, "Watch me, loser, or I'm going to crush _yours_."

 

"Crush my feet, I'll crush your skull like a robin egg between my thighs," You suffered to keep your stoic expression then, obeying his word with every step he took hesitantly. He rolled off of his feet awkwardly, picking up his legs just too high, but it fit with the euphoric tune. You did not dance with him.

 

"Ewww." Hissing, he took the moment to flick your temple, "You're like a fish that gave up flippity flopping around and instead you're just lying on the dock beady-eyed. You're a fish, Dave,"  He murmured a curt, "Get fucked!"  before gaping his mouth open and placing his palm to it. His legs thinned out with time spent off of them, months without much fulfilling exercise. He shouldn't be doing this.

 

"I'm hotter than two rats making love in a wool sock, it's just-"

 

"It's nothing! I want to dance with you, and that's that, so humor me for a bit before I'm bed bound once again," He plastered his face with a pout, bundling his fists into his gown. He really shouldn't be doing this. 

 

"You're going to get hurt." 

 

"I'm _going_ to be fine!" 

 

"I'm looking out for-" 

 

"Shut up!" 

 

"Listen-" 

 

"Just dance with me!" 

 

"I really don't want you to get hurt." 

 

_"I already am! Dave!"_ His teeth clenched together, "Dave, I'm dying! I don't care if it hurts me, I don't want to sit in bed anymore!" He gave you a look you were not fond of, and nobody would be on someone with a terminal illness. His eyes lit up once you gave in. 

 

You danced with him. 

 

He got hurt. 

 

(Ankle, it was pretty devastating feeling if his voice was anything to tell for it.) 

 

He went back to writing the funeral plan. 

 

The weight of death is light upon a broken faith. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes you think that it was because destiny could not handle John's and they had to let it go, or that John was destined for his own demise much worse than knowledge. 

 

Sometimes you think that it was because he did something awful, like, ruined his coat while putting it in a puddle for someone to walk through, or thinking about swimming to the bottom of the ocean to drag up all the last bottles that never got sent. 

 

But that couldn't be true, so sometimes you think that it was because _you've_ done something horrible and so the universe left you lonely and mourning. 

 

Maybe the universe just wasn't prepared for something as beautiful as him.  


 

* * *

 

 

The day John died was, in some twisted works of fate, the first time he told you that he loved you. 

 

When he was young, he would always grab your hand with cheeks bursting with red laughter, but during his last weeks he locked the hospital doors with fingers so frail they could have broke with a handshake. He had finished writing his will, just a few things lying around your apartment that he could actually remember the names of. 

 

The thing about memory is that it's never constant, the brain cannot contain everything so it lets it go if it hurts too much.

 

Two weeks before he passed he looked at you with terror in his eyes ("Who are you?") as your tears that felt like acidic medicine dribbled down your chin and you clutched onto his chest. John choked on his words, hands shaking midair before his voice finally called out for nurses to take this man away. Luckily, he let you visit him the next day. 

 

"I feel as if I should be sad," His glance was aimed at his fingers before he met your own, his voice quiet and concealed.  


 

"Why's that?" 

 

"Because you are sad- about me, I mean. It's kinda selfish of me, I guess. It's really sad to know that you're sad, but I'm not saying I'm sad! Ugh, okay, you get the point." 

 

"Just because someone else it sad doesn't mean you have to be," You crossed your arms over your chest. Maybe he was right. Maybe if he was more careful with who he shared his kindness with he would still be staying up playing video games and drinking cheap beer. It was so incredibly selfish for somebody to act so nonchalant about their death and try and grace that contentedness onto others when they don't know the impact of their life, but it's more selfish to act so _selflessly_   to lose your memory on the deathbed. A small spark of anger rushed through you but bit away like a fire. It's not John's fault he's dying. It's not John's fault he's dying.  


 

"I can try." 

 

And then approximately twelve days later when you opened his door with your accustomed melancholy scowl, his eyes lit up once more and with the same shaking hands, took his face in his hands. You replayed the look that dawned his face like a broken record stuck on repeat- first the eyes of meeting a new friend, and then those that drooped into his lap with his smile melting downward into terror. You immediately dropped your bag aside and ran to him with a frantic.

 

"Woah, is everything okay?" His sobs soon rocked through him quietly. You asked him again, "Are you okay?" His now-bright eyes peeked out of his hands before he let out a shaky breath and pulled you against him.  


 

"I'm so sorry." He croaked out, "I'm so fucking sorry," The sound of his voice resembled that of a young boy that broke his mother's vase, singed with fear, but coated in dead, "I'm so fucking-" 

 

"Stop," Setting your jaw in determination, you cupped his cheeks in your hands, thumbs brushing away his fresh tears,  "What are you even saying?"  


 

"I forgot about you!" He sniffed, nose crinkling, lips curling. A new look of disgust painted his face, his furrowed eyebrows showing a silent fury pouring from his face, "I forgot about you," His fingers curled into his faded locks, "I forgot about you. I forgot about you.. I. Forgot. About. You," With every pronounced syllable, he knocked a steady hand against the top of his head- hands that you aggressively tore down, placing them into your lap softly, loosening the knots wired into the knuckles with soft strokes, "I forgot about somebody I loved."

 

"How... are so sure about that?" The paper wadded into your gut tore under the pressure.  


 

"Because when you walked through that goddamn door, I couldn't help but want to see you happy," His intense expression faded from exhaustion and he hiccuped once, soon breaking into a fit, "You're not happy, you're not happy, and I wanted to do everything in my power to see you smile... I-I-"  


 

 "Why are you so hung up over this? Why? John, your life is too short, why does it matter what one person you don't even remember feels? Even if you love them, for god's sake, you are dying. You are dying and your life is too fucking short." 

 

"Yours is going to keep going and I don't want to-" He paused, grasping onto his mouth, "It's such a cruel way to die knowing that I couldn't do what I wanted to in my last days and heck! It's even more cruel to keep you living after loving you, that's- that's not a way to live." 

 

"That's why you made your funeral happy, moron," You curled his hands at his chest, padding your legs gently onto the bed, careful not to hurt him.  


 

"I made my funeral happy?"  

 

"Yeah, it's a real pain in the ass too, considering I love you too, I love you so fffucking much. You're my, uh, best friend." 

 

"I haven't really...  changed at all then..?" 

 

"Not exactly." 

 

"Wh-"

 

"Don't worry about it. You can't change nothin'. Keep living, I'll get over it," The truth is you're not sure if you're talking to yourself or to him but there's a fat chance either of you are going to listen anyway. He crossed his legs into a butterfly shape, head low in shame. 

 

Even though a feeling of static bursting through your soul shook your fingers, you ruffled his hair gently, mustering enough courage to unravel the birthday paper and allow streams of words to flow, of different sizes and meanings, all broke through, as if dancing off the edges of the paper. There, you told him stories that seemed to get colder as time wore on and he smile spread across his face. 

 

You hadn't seen it in such a long time that your mind screamed the end was near- just like dying of frost from the stories. There's always a moment of warmth before you die and perhaps that's why you started talking in the first place.  

 

You ignored the instinct it in favor of the subtle noises, like John's snorting laughter after you told him about middle school and the gasp of air when you blushed at the recall of senior prom night and the vat of crimson fruit punch coating your, well, everything... 

 

His laughter was short lived as a cough took over. 

 

It spread into a violent choke that raked through him but you didn't do anything but set your hands on his shoulders and try and speak to him. He shook his head, kept shaking it and twitching. (Things are fine! John is okay! Everything is okay! John is going to be okay! John is going to be fine! Everything is okay!) 

 

* * *

 

 

_"Tell me when you're going, okay?"_ _You whispered into his ear, face raw, but voice clear._

 

_"No promises."_ _He laughed with a slick joy._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Three months after John died and you would pass the hospital wondering if you should go inside and talk to him. 

 

Six months after John died and you would approach the graveyard with flowers in hand but stand before the fence wondering if you should go inside and talk to him. 

 

Ten months after John died and you would sit alone in your apartment and stir up memories wondering if you should go inside and talk to him. 

 

Twelve months after John died you woke up with a splitting headache wondering if you could drink enough to try and forget what his voice sounded like. 

 

But then you would remember his funeral, his beautiful funeral, with upbeat music, every shower singer, everybody who had every remembered John's name and how beautiful his eyes looked when he spoke of kindness and kindness was returned. Everybody could talk and laugh and dance with each other. He wrote that everybody needs to forget the flowers on his chest and instead give one to everybody. Solemnly and upon their own will, everybody plucked out a petal and laid it next to him.

 

And there did you really talk to John. You danced with phantoms, after all, and phantoms are meant to have the most beautiful laughter to you.  


 

_"Smile,"_ He said, grabbing one of your hands, _"Lives are meant to be spent, now I am in debt, and I am tired of borrowing from the people I love,"_ He tugged you to the music, holding his feet out, _"I think I can dance now without getting too hurt, what do you say?_

 

**Author's Note:**

> (There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination. Living there, you'll be free, if you truly wish to be.)


End file.
